The Heather and the Heathen

Moors, waterfalls, thistles

Mountains spiked with pine trees

In clusters, a verdant floor home

To many, too small to see,

Or too large to approach with

Threats unknown

In the Scottish wild.

It is here where once

I could walk for miles

No soul to be seen

But ghosts to be sensed

Behind the cottages of Glencoe.

Now I return and in the mist

Even the ghosts have gone,

I hear generators and squeals and smell

The grease mingling with the virgin winds

And from afar I see a zip line cutting through the forest

Where the chopped trees lie dead in moss

And mud.

There was nothing here, once

It was priceless

And hard to find

But sadly a man with a dollar

Thought it would be fine

To bring the inane modern world

Away from the heathens

So the Philistines

Can take selfies against the backdrop

Of a McDonalds and swing park

And parking spots

Where the fumes of the petrol lay low

Like dirty rainbows

In the streams.

I turn my back and walk away

Hiking up a hill

With a rucksack

On my back

Now having to rely on memories

As the present steamrolls

Through the beauty

That was once my land.



Categories: Blog, Creative writing, Nature, Poem, Poetry, Uncategorized

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